


Indigo Blooms in the Kingdom of Hesperus

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, Evil Sam Winchester, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a routine morning in Hell, but Dean is starting to think that Sam wants more than he has been taking ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo Blooms in the Kingdom of Hesperus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallcaps](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=smallcaps).



> Hesperus is ancient Greek for "Morning Star".

Dean wakes the same way he always does: with Sam’s fingers at work tightening the black leather collar around his neck until it digs into his throat with every swallow. He knows better than to fight Sam on it, although he tried the first month or so, and instead concentrates on getting his bearings after a night spent dreaming of freedom.

He isn’t in Nebraska anymore, isn’t in Oklahoma or South Dakota or Nevada or anywhere in America. He isn’t even on Earth, he thinks. Or beneath it. No, Hell is located somewhere else—somewhere just a few inches to one side. Somewhere wrong.

So. He’s in Hell. He’s in Hell and in Sam’s bed and he isn’t a hunter anymore. Dean likes to think of himself as a prisoner of war these days, so that’s what he tells himself he is, although there’s a leaden feeling beginning to creep into his gut that tells him he isn’t even that.

Prisoners of war can be ransomed. They can be freed or they can escape. Dean has Sam’s ownership stenciled into his bones _(and fuck did that one hurt)_ and across his soul _(more pleasure than pain there, but if given a choice between the two, Dean would pick the bone stenciling any day)_ and—maybe more importantly, maybe not—he has his brother’s constant, unswerving attention.

As Sam has told him time and time again, he’s going to give Dean as much personal attention as he needs to adjust to the new status quo. And if that means taking Dean to the office every day, and bringing him along to meetings, and even to the front lines once or twice, then so be it. Dean takes solace in the knowledge that, if he ever does manage to get loose, he has enough information about Sam’s operation to bring the whole thing crumbling down.

“Morning,” Sam breathes, kissing the corner of Dean’s jaw as he finishes buckling the collar in place.

Dean shakes his brother off and Sam lets him _(he always seems to be in a better mood in the morning, lets Dean get away with more)_. “So, what’s on the menu for today?” he asks, sliding out of bed. “Couple of maimings, a few rounds of torture?”

He’s naked, feels Sam’s eyes on his ass, feels the crusted remnants of his brother’s attentions between his cheeks, and somewhere deep inside his old self flinches. Dean’s stronger these days, though: he’s adapted a thicker skin for this kind of thing, which would have been unthinkable before.

“I have to go in to the office,” Sam says from the bed.

Dean glances over his shoulder as he picks up his pants _(soft and billowing, black silk: Dean knew he shouldn’t have let Sam watch Aladdin so many times when they were kids)_ and sure enough, Sam is wearing his suit. Black with a white shirt and a black tie. There’s a yellow smiley-face pin holding the tie in place.

The pin is a recent addition to the ensemble, and Dean still has to fight back a snicker as he looks at it, no matter how necessary it is. Sam could have found some other way of alerting Dean to his moods, after all: didn’t have to turn Dean’s complaint _(after he pushed Sam a tad too far for the third time in as many days and ended up getting fucked facedown in some girl’s steaming remains)_ into a request for something so absurd.

Maybe Sam did it on purpose. Maybe he’s trying to make Dean laugh, loosen up a bit. Or maybe he’s insane enough that a mood pin seemed like the most logical solution. At any rate, it works, and the faces are easy enough to remember: yellow smiley face means Dean can mouth off as much as he likes, purple leer means he’s about to get fucked regardless of what he does, red scowl means he’s on some seriously thin ice, black _(no face, just that color, like an eclipse)_ means that someone _(maybe Dean, maybe not)_ is going to bleed.

It’s Dean’s personal goal not to ever see that color on the pin again.

“Can I shower first?” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer to that. After all, this is Sam’s place: Sam’s will is God here. The shower is just for Dean’s peace of mind, to be used when he’s close to flipping out and needs a slice of normalcy. If Sam wanted him clean, he would have woken up that way.

“No,” Sam answers, swinging his feet off the bed and standing up. “I want to be able to smell myself on you while I’m working.”

Dean turns away before Sam can get a good look at the disgust he knows is showing on his face. “Why don’t you just piss on me already and get it over with,” he mutters.

“If I thought it would help with that attitude of yours, I would.”

Stepping into the pants, Dean pulls them up with one hand while flipping his brother off over his shoulder with the other.

“Careful, Dean.”

Dean glances back at his brother’s tie and, sure enough, the pin is in an odd, in-between phase like it isn’t sure what color it wants to be. Dean’s pretty sure it’s verging on purple instead of red _(for some reason, his defiance really turns Sam on)_ , but it’s too early to have to deal with how it feels to have his brother’s dick up his ass so he bites his tongue and busies himself with tying the drawstrings on the pants. It takes him a couple of moments to locate the shirt where Sam tossed it last night, and then, when he walks over and reaches for it, it evaporates under his fingertips.

Swearing under his breath, Dean dances away from it. He’s never going to get used to shit like that. Not ever.

When he looks to Sam again, his brother is watching him with an amused twist to his lips. His pin has gone back to yellow, thank God.

“What, no shirt?”

“Not today.”

“Keep showing me off like this and everybody’s gonna want some,” Dean says, heading over to the table where breakfast is, as usual, waiting. It’s supposed to rile Sam, push him off balance, but Sam just laughs.

“Dude, this is Hell. They’re _supposed_ to want what they can’t have.”

His brother has a point there, actually, so Dean ignores him to dig into the food. This is probably the best part of the day right here. Coffee and bacon and pancakes and sausage and eggs and home fries and all of it perfect. This right here is Dean’s little slice of Heaven. Don’t get him wrong, dinner is five star quality too, but dinner is always tainted by the certainty that in a couple of hours he’s going to have to fall asleep with his brother’s cock wedging him open. Kinda puts a damper on the whole event.

But that moment is as far off as it can possibly get right now, and as long as Dean can control his mouth and stay out of Sam’s way, he won’t have to go anywhere near Sam’s cock until then. More often than not, things don’t actually work out that way, but Dean is an eternal optimist when it comes to having sex with his antichrist of a brother—or, as the case may be, _not_ having it. In this instance, as in everything involving Sam these days, less is definitely more.

Dean takes his time eating while Sam putzes around the room doing demony-overlord things—like making the bed and vanishing his own discarded clothes from yesterday—but eventually he’s full and the plates are empty. Dean’s jaw twitches as they evaporate into the air _(is anything here real? did he eat anything at all just now?)_ and then Sam is coming toward him with a short, silver leash in his hands.

“Time for walkies, huh?” Dean says, and Sam frowns at him.

“You’re not a dog, Dean,” he responds, leaning in and snapping the leash in place.

“No, really? Cause I was getting a little confused. What with the collar and the leash and all.” Dean makes his voice as scathing as possible because there are things he hates more about this place, but nothing is quite as humiliating as this. Being led around Hell _(and sometimes even into the real world)_ by his brother. Being called to heel and told to sit and stay and be quiet like some disobedient, overexcited puppy.

He expects Sam to ignore him the way he usually does when Dean complains, but instead Sam brushes a hand through his hair—gentle, without any trace of the covetous hunger he normally displays when he does that. The pin on Sam’s tie has gone a faded blue color Dean hasn’t seen before, which is alarming until he notices the tears leaking from the face’s eyes. Aw, hell. How can Sam’s sadness still pull such a protective, gut response from him? How can it make him want to reach out and comfort the man who is currently holding the other end of the leash attached to his neck?

“They’re just for show,” Sam says. “When you finally accept this, you won’t need them anymore, okay?”

“Okay, so, uh, half past never then?” The words are out of Dean's mouth before he can get a good look at them, and he knows they’re a mistake _(or maybe it’s the tone of voice, which is sharp with instinctive anger, that’s the problem)_ even before he sees red burn the blue away from the pin on his brother’s tie.

“Up,” Sam bites out. “Now.”

He tugs on the leash and Dean goes, grimacing at the way it tugs the collar even tighter around his neck: makes his brother’s claim all that more difficult to ignore. He doesn’t say anything, though—there’s being a wise-ass and then there’s being an idiot, and Dean is smart enough to know the difference between the two. Only a fucking moron would keep prodding at Sam when he’s in this kind of mood.

Still, it isn’t until Sam drags him through the door and into a wide room—wall-to-wall cubicles and demons hard at work in each one of them—that he understands just how upset his brother is. Because Sam is in charge here, and that door goes wherever he wants it to go. Normally, it feeds directly from the bedroom into Sam’s office. Bringing them here, to what looks like the basement floor of a New York office building _(if New York office buildings had bloodied skins hanging on the walls instead of paintings and piped out the wet sounds of suffering over the intercom system instead of muzak, that is)_ , is a calculated move.

Sam knows how much Dean hates being paraded around. He knows that the knowing leers of Sam’s demons get under his skin and make him itch, make him want to hunch in on himself and hide. This is Dean’s punishment for saying aloud the very thing he knows Sam is most afraid of: that Dean won’t ever break, that he won’t bend, that he will refuse to accept this. Dean’s afraid of that too sometimes—God knows it would be easier if he could mold himself into the man Sam wants him to be—but he doesn’t know how to be anyone else.

And frankly, punishments like this only strengthen his resolve not to give in.

Sam drags Dean through floor after floor of his infernal central office. The collar catches against Dean’s Adam’s apple with every swallow: it digs into his neck when he’s a little too slow and Sam gives it a sharp yank. The combined gazes of Sam’s demons are starting to get to him, starting to make him sweat and grind his teeth together, and then Sam shoves him against the wall in one of the stairwells on their way up and pinches and bites at Dean’s nipples until they’re peaked and red. Dean walks the next three floors with his face flushed and his cock hard and aching—erection an obvious tent in the flowing material of his pants—while demons snicker and stare and he’s gonna fucking kill Sam for this when he gets him alone.

Finally, Sam opens a door and Dean sees the familiar safety of his brother’s office on the other side—wood-paneled walls, plush carpet, mahogany desk. He would feel relieved when Sam pushes him inside and away from mocking eyes, but he’s too angry. He manages to wait until Sam shuts the door _(his brother lets him get away with things in private that he would never tolerate in public, and Dean isn’t quite angry enough to do this when demons are watching)_ and then turns around and punches him.

The blow rocks Sam’s head around a little and he hunches his shoulder protectively, putting one hand to his jaw while he looks at Dean with eyes that don’t know whether to be startled or hurt or angry.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again!” Dean snaps, gripping the leash in one hand and trying to pull it out of his brother’s grasp.

Sam’s eyes settle on anger and, tightening his own hold on the leash, he uses it to yank Dean up against his body. Dean can’t see the pin from here, but he’s pretty sure it’s red. Or maybe black. Yeah, Sam looks pissed enough for it to be black. Well, Dean is plenty pissed himself right now, and if he’s going to be punished anyway he might as well go the whole hog.

He brings his right knee up, trying to get his brother in the crotch, but Sam blocks the attack with one firm thigh and then drops Dean to his knees by sending a slap of power through him. The painful reverberations haven’t completely faded when the lashes start: stinging, thin lines that lace through his back and make him flinch. None of this is leaving a mark, of course—it never does—but it still hurts like a bitch and by the time Sam is done Dean is panting and dripping sweat.

“Are you _trying_ to make me kill you?” Sam demands. “Huh? Are you?”

Dean rolls his eyes up, sees that the pin on his brother’s tie is flickering between red and black and, surprisingly, that new blue color, and spits at him.

Sam looks down at him for a long moment, face blank and pin still whirling colors, and then the pin settles on black.

Dean braces himself for more pain, but instead of lashing into him again Sam uses the leash to drag him over to the desk and ties him to the metal ring coming out from one side. The knot at the end of the leather hand strap looks deceptively loose, but Dean knows from experience that it won’t budge if he tries pulling on it. And if he reaches for that knot with the intent of untying it, his stomach will cramp with nausea and he’ll be too busy bending in half and retching to get anywhere.

Sam crouches down in front of him, gripping Dean’s face and tilting it up. “You think I enjoy doing this?” he growls. “You think I like hurting you? Humiliating you? Because I could break you in a fucking second if I wanted to. I could rip the flesh from your bones and melt your marrow and boil your blood and then I could make you whole and do it all over again. I could paint your skin with pain if I wanted to, Dean, I could tear you apart so thoroughly you wouldn’t be able to do more than drool at me.”

Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest—he’s never seen Sam this upset, not ever—but somehow he manages to grunt, “So fucking do it already.”

Sam stares at him for a moment, eyes burning, like he’s considering it, so fucking _angry_. Dean waits for the pain to begin, but it doesn’t. Instead, Sam lets him go and stands up and strides out the door, slamming it behind himself and leaving Dean alone for the first time in what feels like years.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He comes back a couple of hours later with blood spattered on his suit and across the yellow smiley face on his pin. Dean stares at his brother wordlessly as Sam washes his hands in the small sink in the corner. He holds himself still as Sam walks over and sits down in his chair and starts to type on his laptop.

Finally, when it’s apparent that Sam isn’t going to be the first one to speak, Dean asks, “How many?”

“Couple hundred,” Sam answers as his fingers continue to dance over the keys.

 _Goddamn it_ , Dean thinks, and the futile fury and regret and horror inside of him have to go somewhere so he punches the floor hard enough to dislocate at least one of his knuckles. The pain is immediate and searing, grounding, but it disappears an instant later as his knuckle slides back into place.

“You know that’s not allowed,” Sam says, but his voice is mild and he’s still typing.

Dean laughs, a little wildly. “What, so you’re the only one who can hurt me? Is that it?”

Sam’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond.

“Answer me!” Dean yells.

Sam’s fingers finally still, but he doesn’t look at Dean as he says, “I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have—I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.” The click clack of Sam’s fingers hitting the keys starts up again.

Dean leans his head against the side of the desk and shuts his eyes. He thinks about all the people Sam just vented his anger on, wonders how Sam killed them. Wonders where Sam killed them. Who they were.

“It wasn’t anyone you know,” Sam mentions. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

“What the hell do you even want from me?” Dean asks dully, still staring at the backs of his eyelids. He’s been assuming that Sam wants to break him, turn him into some kind of obedient pet, but it’s getting difficult to line that assumption up with the reality of his day-to-day life with his brother.

Because Sam is right. He could break Dean if he really wanted to. He could break him in a second.

“That’s the first time you’ve asked me that,” Sam says. Dean can’t hear the sound of the keyboard anymore.

“You gonna give me an answer?”

Sam is silent for a moment and then he says, “Not right now. I need to get this e-mail out and then I need to go over the spreadsheets.”

E-mail. Spreadsheets. It’s so fucking mundane that Dean wants to scream. He wonders what Hell was like before Sam came here with his logical, lawyer’s mind. What was this building before his brother claimed his kingdom? A dungeon? Some dark, medieval castle with bleeding walls and living, rotten floors? Or something so terrible and vast that his mind can’t even begin to conceive of it.

“You want a book to read?” Sam asks. “Maybe a magazine?”

There are days when Dean has accepted that offer—it’s fucking boring kneeling on the floor while Sam works—but today he shakes his head. “No.”

“How about a movie?” Sam prods, and that surprises Dean enough that he opens his eyes and goes up on his knees to get a better look at his brother. Sam actually looks concerned—face creased earnestly—and his pin is that blue color again, which Dean guesses means that the expression is genuine. He licks his lips.

“What, uh. What sort of movie?”

Sam’s worried expression breaks open in a wide smile and he pulls something small and silver out of a drawer. He slides it over the desk toward Dean and Dean looks at it blankly for a moment before lifting his eyes to his brother again. Sam’s brilliant smile falters.

“It’s, uh. It’s an iPod.”

“I know what a fucking iPod is, Sam,” Dean says.

“Oh. Yeah, right. Of course.”

Carefully, and still certain that there’s some kind of catch here, Dean reaches out and takes the device. He has never been this up close and personal with one of these things, but it doesn’t look quite ... right.

“Some of my boys in R&D upgraded it,” Sam says, probably reading the question on Dean’s face—or maybe just plucking it out of his mind, Sam isn’t all that picky about where he gets his information these days. “Just say the name of the movie you want to watch and it’ll start. Oh, and it gets TV too. Pretty decent reception.”

“Anything else? Does it get torturevision, maybe? Can I watch ‘your boys in R&D’ getting their rocks off on the weekend?”

The pleasant animation drains out of Sam’s face and out of the corner of his eyes, Dean sees the pin on Sam’s tie go red. Dean has already pissed Sam off enough for one day—drove him to another one of his massacres—and so he shuts his mouth and drops his eyes.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome.” But Sam’s voice is clipped and cold and a moment later Dean hears the typing start up again. Orders to the front, probably.

Sitting down, he puts his back to the desk and pushes the tiny white buds into his ears. He sits there for a few minutes staring at the blank screen and trying to decide what to watch while plucking at his pants. Finally—partially because he knows it isn’t going to make him ache too badly inside and partially because it’s the only thing he can think of—he says, “Aladdin.”

When Aladdin is over, Dean is feeling nostalgic and safe enough to request Gremlins _(Sam used to make him fast forward through the scary parts)_ , and then he switches over to TV and follows up with Saved By the Bell. Man, Kelli used to give him such a fucking hard on ...

The screen flickers and goes black on him and Dean blinks, breath catching as he remembers where he is. What he was thinking about. Shit. Shit, Sam’s gonna kill him.

“Hey, man, sorry to interrupt, but food’s here.”

Dean can’t see his brother from here, but Sam’s voice sounds relaxed and he lets out a silent, relieved breath. It’s just lunchtime: not Sam spying on his thoughts and letting unreasonable jealousy get the best of him. Actually, now that Dean is thinking about it, he can smell whatever Sam ordered _(or created: Dean isn’t really sure how that works)_.

Pulling the buds out of his ears, he puts the iPod down next to him and stretches. His legs are a little stiff after sitting in one place for so long, but it isn’t too bad and after a moment he’s able to get back up onto his knees. The posture, which used to send humiliation flushing through him, doesn’t leave him with more than a faint twinge these days and he meets his brother’s eyes without embarrassment.

“What are we having?” he asks, trying to gauge his brother’s mood from his face or, failing that, to get a look at his pin and make sure it isn’t purple.

“Broccoli cheese soup and some of those cucumber sandwiches you like so much,” Sam answers, and his pin _isn’t_ purple—not completely—but it’s getting there. Crap on a fucking stick.

Dean sort of wants to tell his brother to take his gourmet sandwiches and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine _(dinner may be his least favorite meal, but lunch runs a close second)_ , but the food smells fantastic and his stupid, traitorous stomach gives an audible growl.

Sam laughs and leans over to unwrap the leash from the ring. He gives it a tug and Dean, standing, lets himself be drawn around the side of the desk. His brother’s suit is still spattered with blood, which is disturbing, but it’s the deepening violet of Sam’s pin that makes Dean hesitate and draw back as far as the leash will let him go.

“I, uh, I’m not hungry.”

Sam gives him a confused look and then, following Dean’s eyes, glances down at himself. Comprehension flickers across his face and the bloodstains fade as he looks back up.

“Better?”

Not really, no, but his brother’s pin still looks more yellow than violet and Dean doesn’t want to get into a pissing match with Sam over something as inconsequential as a little lunch. Besides, he’s noticed that the experience is a little more bearable when he doesn’t argue. Finishes faster. And he’s more likely to get away without having to endure much more than a dry humping.

“Yeah,” he lies, and lets Sam draw him in.

Dean has lost count of how many times they’ve done this, but sitting on his brother’s lap still makes him feel uncomfortable in his own skin—he’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake, not a kid. And he can never choose between letting Sam bear his full weight _(which leaves him up close and personal with his brother’s cock in a way he tries to avoid)_ and straining his legs to keep mostly to himself.

As Dean hesitates, weighing the two options in his mind, Sam decides for him by settling a hand low on his stomach and pushing him back and down. Sam is already hard—cock a firm bulge nestled against Dean’s ass—and _that_ isn’t a great sign. Dean swallows thickly as his brother shifts beneath him and rubs thoughtful circles across his bare stomach with the soft leather handle of the leash.

“There,” Sam whispers, nuzzling at Dean’s neck. “Now, what do you want first?”

Dean looks down at the steaming bowl of soup ringed by bite-sized sandwiches. The soup smells fucking fantastic, and he’s about to ask for it when he realizes that there’s no spoon. He doesn’t know what that means, but he’s sure it isn’t anything good.

“I’m really not that hungry,” he says, trying to stand up, and the pressure of his brother’s hand on his stomach increases.

“Just a couple bites,” Sam urges. “We’ll start with the sandwiches, okay?” Without waiting for a response, he floats a sandwich up to his free hand and then holds it in front of Dean’s mouth.

Dean doesn’t remember these things smelling like much of anything Upstairs, but here he’s overwhelmed by the odor of fresh bread and the tang of mayonnaise and some crisp, green scent that must be the cucumber. His stomach rumbles again, even more audibly this time, and Sam chuckles.

Oh, fuck it. Shutting his eyes, Dean opens his mouth and leans far enough forward to accept the offering. The movement shifts his weight on his brother’s lap, grinding Sam’s cock between the cheeks of his ass, and Dean feels his brother’s breathing speed. Business as usual.

“Good boy,” Sam murmurs, nipping lightly at Dean’s throat.

“I’m older than you, dipshit,” Dean mutters, and jerks his head away before considering what that kind of movement is going to do down where Sam’s cock is riding the crease of his ass. Sam’s breath stutters and he moans softly, hand pushing Dean more firmly down while he rocks up once.

“I’m the one holding the leash,” Sam reminds him in a breathy voice that makes Dean’s stomach flutter. He drags the leash up from Dean’s stomach to tease at his nipples with it: the smooth rub of the leather and the cold links of the chain quickly leave both nubs peaked and aching. Dean’s cock is starting to stir between his legs, and he hates it, hates himself, hates that Sam can have this effect on him.

“Want another bite, _baby_?”

It’s a deliberate taunt, a challenge Dean can’t meet, and his face heats. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Mmm, don’t think so,” Sam purrs. Tugging on the leash hard enough to make the collar dig into Dean’s throat, he rocks up again: an insistent, undulating motion that Dean has no choice but to ride.

 _Godfuckingdamnit,_ Dean thinks, but he holds himself still and he bites his tongue. He isn’t going to say anything else. Not when every word just seems to be exciting Sam more. The goal here is to get through this without arousing his brother, thanks.

After waiting for a couple of seconds for Dean to respond, Sam chuckles and floats another mini-sandwich up. “Open wide,” he whispers, ghosting his tongue over Dean’s earlobe.

Dean obeys and the sandwich floats in. He tries to concentrate on how good it tastes, but it’s difficult when he keeps getting distracted by how good he _feels_ : Sam dragging the leash over his nipples again and again while his other hand presses Dean close so that Sam can thrust up against him. Dean isn’t quite far gone enough to be sporting a full erection, but his cock is more than half-hard and aching in his pants, and Sam’s sense of smell is good enough these days that he has to _know_ , that he must be able to smell Dean’s arousal on his skin like perfume.

Sam feeds him mini-sandwich after mini-sandwich and then, finally and unexpectedly, stops. Dean cautiously opens his eyes, which had fallen shut without his permission, and tries to slow the rapid, light pace of his breath. The mini-sandwiches are all gone, leaving only the soup, which is still lightly steaming. It isn’t going to get cold unless Sam wants it to, not here.

“Still hungry?” Sam whispers in his ear.

Dean is, God help him, and the soup smells even better than the sandwiches did. Sam presses a kiss against his cheek and Dean feels his brother’s lips stretch in a smile. This time, Sam floats the entire bowl up and hangs it impossibly in midair. Then, taking his hand off of Dean’s stomach, he dips two fingers into the bowl and holds them out.

Dean stares at his brother’s fingers for a moment, his heart beating way too fast, and says, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Sam chuckles in response and starts sucking on his earlobe. Dean swallows the moan he wants to make—feels like Sam is sucking on Dean’s cock instead of his ear—but he can’t keep from opening his mouth in a rough pant and Sam’s fingers slide in. The soup tastes fucking fantastic, just as advertised, and as Sam pulls off of Dean’s ear with a slow drag of his teeth, Dean is able to focus enough to do something about it.

In an effort to get more of that tantalizing taste, he sucks at his brother’s fingers, heedless of whatever effect it might be having on Sam. He pushes his tongue between them and then fucks it down into the V where they join. He laps across Sam’s knuckles and fingertips and makes a soft, protesting noise when his brother’s fingers pull free. They’re back in a second, though—freshly coated—and Dean starts in with renewed enthusiasm. It’s a little twisted, yeah, but if this is the only way he’s going to be able to get that soup then Dean is willing to play the good dog for once.

He’s so focused on the food that it takes him a while to notice the way his brother is rocking them: to notice that he’s not only letting himself be rocked but actively helping. Sam is talking, too—whispering low, encouraging words into Dean’s ear. _That’s it, good boy, lick them clean._ Dean is hard in his pants—painfully so and leaking precome.

When he does notice, he comes back to himself in a rush—that’s Sam behind him, and he’s in Hell, and Sam has been ripping the world to shreds in between bouts of messing around with Dean. Without giving himself time to second-guess the instinct, he bites down. Hard.

Sam immediately pulls his fingers free, swearing, “Son of bitch! That _hurt_ , Dean!”

“Good!” Dean says, trying to push off his brother’s lap. “You said you weren’t gonna use your powers on me like that, you fucking _promised_ —”

“I _didn’t_!” Sam hisses, wrestling with him in an effort to keep him in place.

“Bullshit!” Dean snarls, and fights harder.

The soup crashes to the floor as Sam stops holding it and then he’s shoving Dean up and forward and slamming him down on top of the desk. Dean grunts as Sam plants a hand on the back of his skull and pushes. Sam’s hips press up against his, pinning him there as well, and Dean is left flailing out behind him with one hand and trying to shove up with the other. Sam lets him fight for a couple of moments and then yanks on the leash and brings Dean back up, bodies flush together. Sam has his hand on the collar now, pulling it tight so that the leather digs into Dean’s throat and cuts off some of his air.

“Now you listen up, you stubborn son of a bitch, because I’m only going to say this once,” Sam growls. “I promised I wouldn’t mess with your mind and I haven’t. That right there was all you.”

“Yeah right,” Dean pants. “Because I get off on being molested by my little brother.”

“You get off on more than that, Dean,” Sam tells him, and then his hand is in Dean’s pants and on his cock: stroking him with slow, thorough motions.

“Ngh,” Dean grunts, which isn’t quite the ‘no’ he wants it to be.

“What pisses you off more?” Sam whispers. “The fact that you can’t stop me or the fact that you like it?”

“Fuck you,” Dean manages, and knows instantly that it was the wrong thing to say as Sam releases his cock and shoves him down onto the desk again.

“Right verb, wrong pronoun,” Sam says, holding him there with one hand in the middle of his back. “But you get extra points for enthusiasm.”

“Get off me!” Dean spits, but Sam just yanks his pants down and yeah, that right there explains his brother’s Aladdin obsession. Easy access.

Sam doesn’t have any free hands—one is busy holding Dean down, the other is still on Dean’s pants—but Dean hears the sound of a zipper being lowered anyway and his pulse quickens. The knowledge that Sam is using his power to free his cock shouldn’t make Dean’s dick twitch where it’s trapped against his brother’s desk, but it does anyway. More proof that Sam is messing around with his head.

Sam doesn’t bother to prep him. He doesn’t bother with lube, either. Never does. One moment there’s blunt pressure against Dean’s ass and then next Sam is inside him: hot and heavy and filling him so completely that he lets out a pained grunt. Sam pushes in until his balls are nestled up against Dean’s ass and then stops.

“Beg me for it.”

“Are you fucking _insane_?” Dean demands, doing his best to hold still while his body adjusts to the invasion.

“I’m through letting you lie to yourself about this,” Sam replies. Only a slight tension in his voice tells Dean that staying still like this is at all difficult for his brother.

“I’m not!” he insists. “I fucking told you, I don’t want this, Sam! I’m not gay, damn it!”

“You might not be gay, but you _do_ want this. You want me. I can smell it on you. Now say it.” He pulls out sharply and then fucks back in with the command, rocking Dean’s body against the desk.

“You make me sick,” Dean pants, gripping the edge of the desk. He doesn’t have to see his brother’s pin to know it’s indigo verging on black. All he needs is the way Sam fucks out and then in again, like a blow.

“Say it.”

It takes Dean a couple of seconds to find his voice again, but when he does he uses it to rasp, “I fucking hate you.”

Sam fucks into him again, and by now Dean is loose enough that it isn’t anything but pleasurable. He drops his face, resting his forehead on the cool wood, and then Sam uses the leash to jerk him up and back more firmly onto his next thrust.

“Say it,” he demands, gripping the collar with one hand.

The new angle slots Sam into him just right, leaving his brother’s dick pressed up against that sweet, shivering spot that Dean both loves and hates, and he moans.

“Tell me, Dean, or you don’t get fucked the way we both know you want.”

“Sam,” Dean gasps and then, as Sam fucks into him again, thinks, _Just do it._

“Nuh uh. I want to hear the words from that pretty mouth of yours, baby. I want you to say it out loud so you can’t deny it later.”

Dean’s pretty sure that this is the definition of duress—the way that Sam keeps filling him up with those slow, demanding thrusts that aren’t quite what he needs—which means he isn’t actually going to have any problem denying it later, so he caves and whispers, “Fuck me.”

“Louder and more,” Sam orders, giving a jerk on the leash.

“I w-want you to fuck me,” Dean manages. “I hate you for—for making me feel like this, but I—I need you to fuck me. Happy now, you fucking sadist?”

“No,” Sam answers, sliding his fingers further beneath the collar and making it uncomfortably snug against Dean’s throat. “But it’ll do for today.” He starts fucking Dean in earnest then—biting down on his shoulder and nipping at the corner of his jaw while he thrusts.

Dean tilts back for it. He moves his hips in encouraging undulations and it’s horrible. It’s horrible and nauseating and he’s so goddamned turned on he feels like he’s going to explode. He wishes that he could remember how this made him feel in the beginning—wishes he could recapture the pure horror and disgust he felt when Sam took him that fist time—but he can’t. Much as he spends every waking moment when Sam’s dick isn’t inside of him pretending that he doesn’t want this, a part of Dean has grown to crave it.

Sam slows suddenly, unfairly, and Dean whines in protest.

“Shh, we’ll get there.” Sam pulls his fingers free from the collar and draws them down the shaking line of Dean’s back. “You remember what you asked me earlier? About what I want from you?”

“Christ, Sammy, can’t we—can’t we talk about this later?”

Dean pushes his hips back in an effort to get Sam moving again, to get this over with, and Sam pushes him flat on the desk. Dean is getting really sick of being manhandled by his brother, and he’d complain about it, but Sam has pulled almost all the way free, only the thick head of his cock still holding Dean open, and he’s just standing there. Fucker.

“You evil son of a bitch,” Dean pants.

“I don’t want a pet,” Sam says conversationally as he sinks centimeter by agonizing centimeter back into Dean’s body. Dean shakes as his brother bottoms out and then groans when Sam pulls back.

“I think you figured that one out for yourself,” Sam continues as he sinks in again.

“Sam, just—I don’t fucking _care_ , just fuck me already.”

Out, and then the long push in again as Sam adds, “I don’t want a slave either.”

Despite the clamor his over stimulated body is making, Dean laughs at that. “Fucking liar.”

“You think I’d let you get away with so much lip if I wanted to break you?” Sam asks, still keeping up that torturous rhythm. “You think I’d let you talk back to me at all?”

Jesus Christ, how does he expect Dean to think _anything_ when he’s skewering him with his cock like that?

“Please,” he whispers, and then Sam sinks in and stays there. He drapes himself over Dean’s back, lining them up perfectly. Dean can feel his brother’s mood pin digging into his spine, feels the brush of cloth against his skin. He waits for Sam to move, but his brother just lies there. He isn’t even breathing hard, the fucker: might have fallen asleep except for the way he’s stroking Dean’s hair with one hand.

“What the fuck do you _want_?” Dean groans finally, and he means ‘what do I have to do to get you to fuck me’, but that isn’t the way that his brother takes it.

“I want a consort, Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is almost tender. “I want someone to stand at my side as an ally and an equal—but first you have to learn some respect. You have to accept that we aren’t fighting on the same side anymore. There are different rules now, and you need to learn those as well.”

Dean didn’t think anything could snap him out of his aroused frenzy, but Sam just found the right words. He stares out at Sam’s office in horror, trying to wrap his mind around it. Trying—and failing—to picture what it might be like to be as careless with human life as this new version of his brother is. What it might be like to stand at the head of Hell’s armies instead of against them.

“No,” he breathes, trembling as his chest fills with cold.

“Mmm, I know it isn’t on your to-do list just yet, but we’ll get there. I’ll work with you as long as I have to, I promise.” He kisses Dean’s cheek, affectionate. “This first, though. If I have to deal with your bitching while I teach you how to be a murderer as well as a killer, then I’m going to need some compensation.” Reaching around beneath Dean’s body, he cups Dean’s dick and gives it a gentle but firm squeeze.

“No,” Dean says again, more strongly, and tries to pull away. He has nowhere to go, though: not with Sam so heavy and unmovable on top of him. Not with Sam’s cock buried inside of him and joining them together.

“So you get to learn this first,” Sam continues, relentless. “And when you’re as hungry for me as I am for you, we can move on to the next lesson.”

“Don’t do this to me, Sammy,” Dean begs. He can feel tears slipping down his face: an embarrassment he hasn’t had to deal with since that first day, since the first time Sam’s cock breached him and he realized that his brother was serious and that this was real and that he wasn’t going to wake up.

“Shh, baby,” Sam tells him, and licks at the line of salt spilling down Dean’s cheek while he begins to move again. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

“No, I don’t want—fuck, just—just kill me, please, don’t— _don’t do this_ , Sammy, please.”

“Shh,” Sam soothes, and the cooing quality in voice is completely at odds with the renewed violence of his thrusts.

Dean wants to hate it—he prays to hate it—and finds himself responding anyway. Just like Sam is teaching him to. How many more months before he’s the star pupil Sam is determined to make him and his brother decides to graduate him to the next level? Three months? Four? Surely not as many as five, not at this rate.

Dean can’t really hear anything over his pleas—for Sam to stop this, to let him go, to kill him, not to fucking _do_ this—so he’s taken by surprise when Sam’s hand slots into place over his mouth, muffling him. Sam’s pace slows marginally, although he doesn’t stop, and a moment later Dean hears his brother call, “Come in.”

What? No. Not—not when Dean is like this. Not when he’s crying and fucked up and has Sam’s cock filling him. Dean struggles, trying to buck Sam off—trying to pull his brother’s hand away from his mouth. Silk rope materializes out of the air to coil around his wrists, yanking them back down against the desk. Still muting Dean’s cries with one hand, Sam straightens and plants the other in the small of Dean’s back. Holding him still and steady for it.

“Mmmph!” Dean screams, desperate, and then the door opens and he squeezes his eyes shut. It makes his head swim—all he has to concentrate on now is the rhythmic slide of Sam’s cock inside of him, and the scent of his brother’s hand at his nose and mouth, and the harsh sound of his own panting—but it’s still better than watching this train wreck.

“Yes?” Sam says from above him.

There’s a pause where Dean knows that whatever lackey just interrupted them is taking in the view and then a familiar voice says, “We’ve located Bobby Singer.”

Ruby. Of course. Because Dean hasn’t been through enough yet today.

His chest tightens for a moment—painful, unbearably so—and then Dean stops fighting and goes limp. It’s stupid to hope, but maybe if he doesn’t move she won’t look at him anymore. Maybe he’ll be too boring to be a source of amusement.

“Where is he?” Sam asks, changing the angle of his thrusts so that he’s driving directly into Dean’s prostate. He has never liked Dean being docile when he’s getting fucked, the bastard, and Dean knows that this is his brother’s way of provoking him. This is Sam’s way of forcing Dean to respond. And Sam cheats. Always has.

Dean jerks at the first phantom brush of a mouth around his balls. Jerks again as his cock is also engulfed in illusory, slick heat. Impossibly, mouths are also on his nipples where they’re pressed against the desk—suckling and nipping at him—and he can’t help it. He moans against Sam’s hand, wet and low, and starts to move in time with his brother.

Ruby is saying something about Nebraska and a church, and Dean should be paying attention because this is Bobby, this is the closest thing to family he has left, but he can’t think past what Sam is doing to his body. He’s too far gone to even notice when Ruby leaves, except that must be when Sam speeds up again—or maybe that’s when the rope binding his wrists evaporates so that Sam can pull out and turn Dean over and fuck him that way, with Dean’s legs spread achingly wide and spreadsheets and pencils falling every which way off the desk as Sam takes him.

When Dean finally comes, moments before his brother, his throat is hoarse from the screams Sam has pulled from him. His thighs, quaking, fall closed around his brother’s waist, and he floats in a dazed, blissed-out fog while Sam licks the sweat from his chest. He’s still crying, but he can’t remember why, unless it’s because nothing has ever felt this good.

“Shh,” Sam tells him, voice warm with pride. “You did good. You did so good, baby.”

Dean’s chest warms absently at the praise, and he leans into the caressing hand Sam runs down his side while leaning over and pressing down on the intercom.

“I’m taking Dean home.”

“Now?” Ruby’s voice comes back, sounding startled.

Dean blinks up at the ceiling, attempting to focus, but it’s difficult with Sam petting him like that.

“Yes, now. He’s about five minutes from passing out and I can’t let him—”

“I know you can’t break the conditioning pattern, Sam. I’m the one who taught you about it, remember? I just—”

She sighs as Sam slides his hand over Dean’s hip and down between his thighs. Dean parts them thoughtlessly and is rewarded when his brother’s fingertips dip just inside his loose hole.

“You have to learn to control yourself,” Ruby’s voice continues. “You can’t keep taking off early because you decide you want to fuck your brother into a coma.”

“Once, Ruby,” Sam says, and the displeasure in his voice makes Dean tense slightly. Then Sam’s fingers stroke deeper into him, soothing, and he relaxes again. “I’m leaving early _once_.”

“Push him too hard and you’ll break him.”

Dean’s back arches lazily as Sam’s fingers find that sweet, sparking place inside of him and press down.

“I’m being careful. Are we all set with Bobby? Ruby?”

“Yes.”

“ _Ruby_.”

“We’re set, okay! No one’s going to touch the man until your precious consort is ready to play. Which I still think is a mistake, by the way. You can’t just leave someone like Singer running around loose.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think. We’re saving him for Dean. And Ruby? Don’t bother me unless the angels try to break through again.”

It’s silent after that: no sound except for Dean’s weak moans as Sam’s fingertips send lighting bolts of pleasure through his body, and Sam’s heavy breaths. Everything is dimming at the edges, fading into the soft blur of slumber. Then Sam pulls his fingers free and Dean makes a sleepy, protesting sound.

“Come on, man, let’s get you home,” Sam says, and Dean feels himself lifted. He clings to his brother, started and a little alarmed by the sensation, which is too close to flying. His exhaustion recedes long enough for him to see his brother smiling down at him with a tender expression and then Dean shuts his eyes again and turns his face into Sam’s chest.

Sam carries him several steps, pauses, and then walks forward again. When he puts Dean down again, it’s into the soft folds of their comforter.

“Mmm,” Dean says, flopping onto his side and pulling the pillow close. Behind him, the bed dips.

“Not yet, man,” Sam says, shaking his shoulder. “I need you to stay awake just a few more minutes, okay?”

Dean nestles more comfortably into the pillow, ignoring his brother. Then Sam’s fingers dig into his shoulder, painful, and jerk him back from the edge of sleep. “Ow!” he complains, blinking over his shoulder. “Fuck’s that for?”

“You can’t fall asleep yet,” Sam answers, and slides into the bed with him.

“Why the hell not?” Dean asks, but the question lacks the vehemence he wants to give it. God, he’s so tired ...

“Just—” Sam says, rolling him halfway onto his stomach and pushing his left leg forward and up. “—Yeah, like that.”

There’s a brief moment of pressure and then Dean feels his brother’s cock ease back into him. He’s still sore from before, and so he moans and tries to pull away, but Sam’s arm slings low around his stomach and keeps him close.

“Okay,” Sam breathes, loosening the collar from around Dean’s neck with his other hand. “Okay, you can sleep now.”

“Not gonna—fuckin _inside_ me—”

But Dean’s words don’t even make sense to himself, and he doesn’t really know what he’s protesting. There’s a languid swell of arousal and contentment washing through him—his brother’s hand replacing the collar’s pressure around his neck, his brother’s cock moving in shallow, almost imperceptible thrusts where it’s buried inside of him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Sam whispers, and lays a sloppy kiss on Dean’s ear. “You feel so good.”

“Feels good,” Dean echoes thoughtlessly, and pushes back more firmly against his brother.

“That’s it,” Sam says, stroking Dean’s stomach and cock while he moves in and out with barely perceptible motions.

Dean falls asleep like that, and for the first time his dreams are chained. Bound up in the sensations riding his body, he dreams not of fields or highways or bars, but of fire licking his skin, and of a blood-dimmed ocean moving inside of him. He dreams of his brother’s restless hands and Sammy’s burning, golden eyes.

It feels a little bit like being loved.


End file.
